Chapter 4 - The Carriage House
The trees offered a brief reprieve from the driving wind, their heavy pine boughs catching the worst of the snow.
Ethan and Claire stumbled through the deep drifts, following the outline of an old stone wall that marked the perimeter of the Bennett property. Behind them, the beams of flashlight searchers swept through the timber, accompanied by the deep, frantic baying of bloodhounds being unleashed from the estate stables.
"They have dogs," Ethan muttered, his hand tightening on Claire's.
"They're Arthur's hunting hounds," Claire panted, her face turning a dangerous shade of grey from the freezing cold. "They... they know my scent. Arthur used to bring them to the door... to scare me into staying quiet when visitors came."
"They won't touch you tonight," Ethan said grimly.
They burst out of the treeline into a small clearing occupied by a slate-roofed carriage house built from granite blocks. Heavy oak doors secured by an iron bar blocked the front entrance.
Ethan lunged for the iron bar, his gloved hands slipping on the thick ice crusting the metal. He slammed his heel against the latch once, twice, until the ice shattered and the bar slid free with a heavy metallic groan.
They slipped inside, slamming the heavy doors shut behind them just as the first baying of the hounds reached the edge of the clearing.
Ethan dropped to his knees, sweeping his flashlight beam across the dark garage floor.
Sitting in the center of the space, supported on four flat rubber tires, was a 1998 Land Rover Defender 110, its dark green paint thick with twenty years of dust and cobwebs.
Ethan yanked open the driver’s side door. The interior smelled of old leather, engine oil, and dry pine needles.
"Claire, get in the passenger side," Ethan ordered, reaching under the steering column and ripping down the plastic housing to expose the ignition wiring harness.
Claire scrambled into the high leather seat, pulling her frozen feet up onto the floorboard. "Ethan... the battery... it's been twenty years."
"This is a mechanical diesel, Claire," Ethan said, his fingers working frantically in the dark as he stripped the insulation off the main heavy-gauge lead wires using his pocketknife. "No computer boards. No digital locks. If there’s oil in the block and fuel in the mechanical pump, she’ll turn."
Outside, the heavy thud of dog paws hit the wooden carriage doors, followed by frantic scratching and deep, lung-filled howls.
Scratch. Scratch. Howl.
"They're here!" Claire whispered, her hand clutching the dashboard.
Ethan twisted the solid red battery feed wire against the thick brown starter lead.
Sparks showered into the floorwell, illuminating the dark cab in violent flashes of blue light.
The old starter motor groaned—a heavy, reluctant metal-on-metal whine that seemed to drag twenty years of rust through the crankcase.
Rrr... rrr... rrr...
"Come on, you beautiful British iron," Ethan growled through gritted teeth, grinding the wires together again.
Rrr... RRR... VROOOOM.
The four-cylinder diesel engine roared to life with a violent, deafening rattle that shook the entire carriage house. Black soot exploded from the exhaust pipe, filling the air with the rich, unmistakable stench of unrefined diesel fuel.
Ethan slammed his foot onto the clutch, jammed the heavy transfer case lever into low four-wheel drive, and dropped the main shifter into first gear.
"Hold on!" Ethan yelled.
May you like
He stomped the accelerator to the floor.
The Land Rover surged forward, its steel winch bumper smashing through the heavy oak carriage doors in a shower of splintered wood, rusted iron, and flying snow.
